A.N. Another small reminder that reviews or PMs that contain death threats, threats of physical harm, or verbal attacks of a personal nature will be ignored and deleted. I am always happy to discuss any thoughts or concerns about my writing, but I will not tolerate abusive language. For those of you who have offered polite criticism, I respect your opinions and take them into consideration.
From somewhere to his right, Ron was aware of Hermione saying that she was going to go brush her teeth, and Harry spreading out his sleeping bag on the floor. Ron stood up from the couch, walked three steps, stopped, and took two back. He was a ball (if the word could be applied to someone with his lanky frame) of nervous energy, his fingers twitching with the need to do something. The relief of hearing that his family was alright had only lasted a few moments, before doubt began to creep in. What if his dad had just said that to keep them away? Surely they knew he would have come right back if they needed him, or if one of them was...well, along the lines of George's ear. They did know that, right? He knew that they had all skirted around things before he left, but surely they understood that it wasn't easy for him to leave them?
He knew going with Harry was the right choice; he didn't doubt that for one moment. And he knew Harry felt nearly as bad as he did, so he was trying not to make a big deal of it, but it was so damn hard. He'd thought that when they left, everyone would be safe and snug inside the wards of the Burrow, that he'd get a chance to say goodbye. 'Course, he had some written just in case...in case, but he meant something more cheerful to start with.
Hermione gave his jumper a sharp yank that she knew he couldn't feel, loathing another sign that he had accepted his death as more of a probability rather than a possibility. Watching Ron's restless movements, it hit her, as it hadn't before, that Ron had had it harder than either her or Harry. Harry, as horrifically brutal it was to say, didn't have a family that he had to worry about. Yes, he loved the Weasleys, and it would have crushed him if something happened to any of them, but it still wasn't the same; their presence in his life hadn't been as constant as it had been for Ron, and wouldn't leave the same kind of hole. Doing what she had to protect her family had been damaging in it's own way, but she at least had the comfort of knowing they were safely oceans away; the Weasleys were vocally on the front lines. Ron had done what he could for them by disguising the ghoul, to shield them from, or at least postpone, any retaliation when his flight was discovered by the Ministry.
And now he was feeling guilty because his concern about his family meant it had been hard for him to leave. Hermione, however, didn't see that as a flaw. Ron's love for, and desire to protect his family were some of his greatest strengths. If he had been able to walk away from them without a second thought, then he wouldn't be the man he was, or even a man she could love. Just because you believed in a cause with your whole heart didn't mean you lightly walked away from your responsibilities and loved ones. It was a hard sacrifice to make, and one you didn't unless you had to, as a final option. This was a perfect example to her of how, although his job might take him from her on long missions, he would never leave her or their future children without regretting having to do so. He would do what he could to make sure they would be alright without him, and he would come back as soon as he could.
Harry was silent, and Ron knew, from experience, that it was best to just go through the normal motions as best as he could, until Harry felt like interacting. Ron needed something to do with his hands, since there was no conversation to distract him, so he went about setting up his bedding. Since there was only his sleeping bag and a pillow to lay out, it didn't take long, so he decided to be helpful, and reached out for Hermione's. After several months of getting himself into the habit of performing small gestures of affection, it was only natural to wonder how he could make her more comfortable. Spying the sofa in front of him, he immediately snatched up the cushions, fluffing them up and making sure they weren't dusty or riddled with dead mice.
Satisfied that they were clean and vermin free, he started to place them on the floor, then paused. Harry was already lying down, pretending to be asleep. He obviously wanted his privacy, so shouldn't he and Hermione keep their distance? And sometimes Hermione pressed a bit too hard, too fast, so surely it was best to keep her on this side, while he took the middle. Of course, he didn't want to make it too obvious, so he would have to stay close to her, too. He grabbed his bedding, and moved it closer to where he had placed hers, and stared down at the arrangement. The tips of his ears burned as he realized that if they were any closer together, it would look like one bed. The thought of being able to curl up in the blankets with her, with their arms wrapped around each other, made his chest ache. To be able to hold her close, and stroke her hair, her back, her arms...The images changed rapidly to something far less innocent, and he jerked his bedding a few inches away, cursing himself for being such a randy bastard. How could he even think like that, with all that was happening? To say nothing of the fact that Hermione would murder him right there if she woke up in the morning with his stiffy wedged firmly in her arse crack. Shit. Why did he think that? Now he was hard. Shit, shitshitshit. Naturally, this was the moment she would pick to walk back in.
As casually as possible, he sat down and hunched himself over, so she wouldn't notice that he had a visitor, hoping that the dim lighting would help. Luck was with him, because once she saw that Harry wasn't going to be sociable, her attention was mostly focused on her sleeping arrangements. He was pleased that she noticed his efforts, and appreciated them, but he practically sprinted out the door when she gave him an excuse to leave. Quickly, he locked himself in the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief. His toothbrush, razor, and deodorant were lined up on the sink, along with a folded pair of pajamas. He shucked his jumper and trousers, and then paused. At first, he had intended to ignore his problem. It really wasn't the time or the place, after all. But then he began to think; he was going to have to go back in there, lie down next to her, smell whatever it was that she put her her skin at night, and somehow manage to keep his blood from flowing to the wrong head.
Now might not be the right time or place, but he couldn't seem to convince his cock of that, so he really had no other choice. Cursing himself for leaving his wand in the other room, he clenched his jaw as he took himself in hand, and began to stroke. He needed to be fast, so he let his mind wander back to the wedding, and how things might have gone if they had been able to go for that walk. He sped up at the image of her arms wrapped around his neck as he kissed her, his mind filling in the noises he hoped she would make, and mentally lowering the neckline of her dress several inches. His thoughts had him close, but not close enough; he switched to a grateful Hermione sliding under his blanket, eager to make sure he was as comfortable as he had made her. It didn't take long before the picture of Hermione bobbing up and down below the covers had him coming hard, grunting between his teeth. In no time at all, he had cleaned himself up with a few squares of toilet paper, brushed his teeth, and was padding back down the hall in his pajamas, the picture of innocence.
Hermione was already snug under her blanket, and as he moved closer and his eyes adjusted more to the dark, he would almost swear that she had moved his things closer to her. Dismissing it as an optical illusion borne of far too much hope and his recent activities, he dropped to the floor and crawled into his sleeping bag, twisting and turning to find a comfortable position. The floor was damn hard, even with the Cushioning Charm he had used. Tempted by the idea of having an opportunity to have Hermione in sight as he fell asleep, he rolled to his side, and nearly let out a yelp. If his already lengthy nose was any longer, it would have touched hers. He was already forming apologies in his mind before he realized that Hermione was perfectly calm, so he let himself relax a little, extremely glad now that he had taken the time to brush his teeth, among other things.
It had been a long day, and things were likely to get harder from here on out, so they should probably get some sleep. However, Ron found he was reluctant to give up this rare moment of (semi) privacy, even if this was far from how he had pictured the end of his day. Well, getting horizontal with Hermione had been a fantasy, of course, though not one he had thought held much chance. Still, this was a lot closer than he usually thought he would get, and part of him wanted to escape the reality of what had happened by trying to recapture some of the mood from the wedding.
When he asked her if she was comfortable, he hadn't expected it to turn into thanks for what had happened back at the cafe. To be honest, he didn't even really consider it was something he could take credit for, since it wasn't as if he had even thought about it. If there was a chance she was going to be hurt, he did what he could to stop it. Period. It was as natural and necessary to him as breathing. Apparently, though, she didn't buy the idea that anyone would've done the same. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that they would, if they were as mental about her as he was, but he wasn't sure that would be the right thing to say.
No, actually, it would have been pretty much the perfect thing to say, Hermione thought. Though she knew he would have done the same for any of his friends, hearing that he considered her to be a special case would have sent her over the moon. It would have been preferable if he had managed it without Harry sleeping a few feet away, but considering she had leapt on him and nearly snogged him to death with Harry watching, she couldn't say much.
He tried to change the subject by making a joke about her knight comment, holding in a moan when he felt her breath from her laugh ghost over his lips. The need to reach out and pull her closer was almost too much, so he tried to think of anything besides the fact that they were laid out in bed practically like a couple. unfortunately, this lead him back to thoughts of his family, and he sobered up quickly as his worry returned. In the quiet darkness of the room, it was easy to voice his fears, and more comforting than he could say when she tried to reassure him. He knew there was no way to know for sure, but hearing things were alright in Hermione's convicted tone of voice let him believe it for a little longer.
Without meaning to, it had set her mind down a bad path, and he realized that she had worries of her own. All thought stuttered to a halt as he felt her hand slide down his arm and link with his, her fingers lacing with his as if they had done this a thousand times before. The sensation went straight to his head, and he felt as if he was levitating three feet off the floor, with only her hand to anchor him in place. It took him a moment to realize that she was moving her hand away, and he instantly wrapped his fingers around hers, thrilled when she stopped moving and continued to hold his hand.
As his mouth stumbled to say the right things, his thumb traced over her fingers, and he marvelled at how small and light they were compared to his giant, clumsy mitts. They were soft, too, except for the callouses from where she held her quill. So bent on studying her, that it took awhile to notice that her thumb had begun to stroke him in the same manner, and this time the blood went to his lower half. They were facing each other, and he could look directly in her eyes; there was something flowing back and forth between them, something he knew the Muggles had a word for. The closest he could come to was likening it to a stupefying spell. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss her. He would barely have to move his head, and their lips would be connected in the way he had dreamed of for so long.
But he couldn't.
Not because he was afraid, even though he was. It was because...it was because after everything that happened today, feeling that good somehow seemed wrong. And it would almost be using it as a distraction, which isn't how he wanted their first kiss (because he was determined that there was going to be one) to go. He wanted it to be when they were happy, and only thinking about themselves. Maybe that was selfish, or unrealistic, but nearly every time they had been close physically lately, it had been out of something like comfort. Was it wrong of him to want things to be different?
Hermione frowned. He was right, and she had mostly felt the same way herself. But this mean he was disappointed with how their first kiss eventually turned out? Did he feel...cheated? He had never acted like it, but now she was nervous to eventually see that memory. It had always been so special to her, and she knew she would be at least a little crushed to find that he felt it had been tainted somehow. She watched herself and Ron struggle to stay awake, wondering if she shouldn't have been bold sooner than she had.
Ron squinted at the sheet of parchment stretched out on the table in front of him, wishing, for probably the first time in his life, that he had bothered to learn decent penmanship. What good was making a bloody list, when you couldn't make out the bloody words? He was racking his brain for every last drop of information he had about the Ministry, cursing himself for not paying more attention to his dad when he had the chance. Facts were beginning to blur together, and he had started to second guess himself.
He tossed the quill down on the table, and massaged his temples, doing his best to ease the throbbing ache that was forming. There was a lot of pressure on him to get this right, and he was beginning to feel like he would crack under the strain. There were a million and one things that could go wrong, and it would all be his fault. The thought of something happening to Harry or Hermione because he fucked something up had him sick to his stomach. And even if they did manage to make it out alive, if he bungled it where they didn't get the locket, they would hate him for sure. They would have to, because he knew he would hate himself.
While she had no doubt that he would have felt that way about himself, Hermione thought she could speak well enough for Harry to say that neither of them would have hated Ron for something like that. It was true they were snappish and on edge, but Ron wasn't solely responsible for the outcome of the mission. For one thing, they weren't going into a static situation. Many changes could have (and had) occurred without him knowing, and there was no way to predict with any real accuracy the actions of people they would randomly encounter. There was also the fact that she and Harry were just as likely to make some sort of mistake as he was, and he shouldn't feel like he had to take the blame for that. Ron had done the best he could, and she had always been proud that he had gotten them as far as he had.
He didn't know which was harder; trying to remember all of these details, or the days when it was his turn to watch the Ministry, and seeing his dad but not being able to talk to him. Each time, Ron searched his dad's face for any sign of what might be going on with his family, and each time, it was harder not to make himself known. He felt like a tit, because he wanted nothing more than for his dad to tell him everything was going to be alright, or to give him some clear advice that would magically make everything better, like when he was little. But he wasn't little. He was an adult, and he needed to get over the idea that running to mummy and daddy was the answer. How could Harry and Hermione rely on him if he was busy sniveling after his parents?
Ron had missed quite a lot if he thought he was the only one in that boat. Harry had longed for his parents so much that you could almost taste it when they had gone to Godric's Hollow, and she would have given anything for a comforting word from hers. Being an adult, even if only legally, had nothing to do with it. When times were hard, it was perfectly natural to want your mum and dad.
"Ron? You don't look very well. Why don't you stop and at least have a sandwich?" Hermione asked from where she stood behind his chair.
"Can't. We're running out of time, and I need to get all this sorted out." He responded morosely.
He expected to hear her sigh and walk away, so he was surprised when she gently swatted his hand as he went to pick up his quill.
"Oi, what's that for?"
Hermione gave him a push so he was sitting back on the sofa, instead of on the edge hunched over the table. He gave a moan as the muscles in his lower back made their displeasure known.
"I think it's time that I turn the tables on you," she answered, sitting down beside him and handing him a plate of sandwiches and crisps, "You keep writing things down and then scribbling them out. I can tell you're getting frustrated with yourself, but you'll never get anywhere if you don't take a break."
"I know, but I wasn't really that hungry any-oh," he took a bite, "Thi' i' goo'."
Hermione gave him a smug smile. "See? I knew you'd be hungry. You didn't eat all of your breakfast this morning."
Ron had wolfed down his first sandwich, and was well into his second. "Yeah, but I knew I needed to get this done as soon as possible. There's only so much sitting outside of the Ministry will help us with, and we can't stay here forever. Especially not with Harry in the mood he's in."
Both of them sat there glumly, remembering the recent scene with Lupin.
"I wish he had handled that better. I understand why he would be sensitive about it, and Lupin couldn't possibly have been thinking straight..." Hermione thought out loud.
Ron slowed down to savor his last sandwich. "You can kind of see how Lupin feels, though. He was worried enough about just being with Tonks. Having a baby must've scared him shitless, knowing how people are going to treat it."
"So you think leaving them was the right decision?" Hermione asked, her voice gaining a sharp edge.
"What? Hell no!"
Lupin knew how babies were made. If he was worried, he should've taken better precautions until the war was over. Now it was too late, so he'd better be responsible. Ron choked on a mouthful of chips, horrified to realize that his mum was living in his head.
"He needs to be with his family. You don't...you don't just run off and leave them. He probably just came here before he got his head on straight."
Suddenly his crisps didn't seem so appetizing, and he put down his plate. Was he being a hypocrite? Because if he remembered correctly, he had pretty much done the same thing, leaving his family behind to help Harry. At least Lupin hadn't left her to face Death Eaters. He looked down as a hand slid over his, stilling the fingers that were rubbing up and down his arm.
"Ron," Hermione said quietly, "It's not the same." At his disbelieving look, "No, really, it isn't. Lupin took on the responsibility of a family when he married Tonks. That was their choice. We...you aren't doing anything any differently than any other child that grows up and leaves home."
He wanted to believe that. He really did. But he couldn't help comparing the way he left to the way his older brothers had. Except for Percy. At least he wasn't as shit as Percy.
"Really? Because it seems a little different than the way my brothers left home."
The corner of Hermione's mouth quirked up. "Alright, so ours was a little more...dramatic. But it was going to happen sooner or later, you know. We couldn't stay kids forever."
This last was said with an air of wistfulness, and Ron wondered if she felt, as he did, that the three of them hadn't even had a normal length of a childhood, much less one that would qualify as forever. And, he thought with a sigh, it wasn't going to get any better if he didn't knuckle under and get this list made. But his attempt to move was thwarted by Hermione, who pulled him back onto the sofa, hugging his arm to hold him in place.
Confused, he looked down at her, searching her troubled expression for a reason why Hermione Granger, of all people, would hold him back from paperwork.
"Hermione? I should, um, probably get back to work now. Thanks for lunch, though."
Hermione rested her head on his shoulder, and sighed. "Just twenty minutes. Your brain needs the rest, and it won't make that much of a difference in the long run."
He put a hand to her forehead. "Are you sick? Should I have a look through your bag for some kind of medicine?"
She snorted, but didn't move. "Seriously, Ron. Harry will be back later, most likely in a bad mood. It feels like the entire world is going mental. Everything is moving too fast, and I just...I just want things to stop for a few minutes, so I can try to catch up. I want twenty minutes where I don't feel horrible."
She had hugged his arm tighter as she spoke, and any desire to move left him completely. "Well, I wouldn't want you to feel horrible," he said softly, tilting his head to rest on top of hers.
Ever since that first night they had fallen asleep holding hands, there had been an increase of physical contact between them. It wasn't sexual (at least not intentionally. He'd be lying if he said none of it had that effect on him), but there was something special about it. Moments like these didn't happen nearly as often as he would like. They were going full tilt most of the time, working on the plan. But it was these moments that they had alone, when they could talk about things and comfort each other, that made him think that there was a future for them after this war ended. He felt her grip relax as her breathing became slow and even. Sitting like this, it was easy to pretend that they were actually a couple. One that had even been together for awhile, with a more permanent arrangement in the future. Lupin clearly wasn't thinking straight. He and Hermione might not be on the same level as Lupin and Tonks, But one thing he was sure of.
Ron knew he could never walk out on something like this, no matter how bad it got.
His sincerity nearly broke her heart. Hermione knew that he truly believed what he was thinking. And she knew that had the locket not gotten ahold of him, things would have played out differently. He still would have been grumpy and frustrated, just like her and Harry; they had gone through periods of that at school, and handled it just fine. Times like these had made his leaving all the harder on her. Being able to talk about serious subjects, and the way physical affection had become easier between them had given her a sense that things were going in the direction of a relationship. As much as she had tried to deny that it was an option, she had begun to hope. Since Dumbledore's funeral, Ron had been showing a new maturity, and more noticeable efforts with the way he treated her. Which was why, when things started to go bad, it had been difficult not to take it personally.
Ron lay on his cot staring at the roof of the tent, whatever potion Hermione had given him for the pain making his head swim. He flexed his arm, raising it a few inches before the pain made him lower it again. It had been several days since their escape from the Ministry, and he was frustrated that he wasn't healing faster, a feeling he knew Harry shared. He knew they were having to move slowly for him, and he hated how he was the one slowing them down, right off the bat. He was glad that neither Harry or Hermione had been the one to be Splinched, but he really wished he had been able to avoid it as well. Just his usual luck, he supposed.
He heard the two of them whispering, and flopped his head over unsteadily on his rubbery neck. They were sitting at the table, and he frowned faintly. Hermione had been taking care of him, but it felt like she was spending less and less time with him. He had hoped that she would creep into his cot for a cuddle more often, but she had only done so a few times since the first day. Was she disgusted that he was holding them up? He wasn't doing it on purpose. At Hogwarts, he hadn't been above milking an illness to get out of work, but he wouldn't think of pulling a stunt like that here. Or was she just finally sick of spending so much time with him? His frown deepened. She didn't seem to be having that trouble with Harry. He blinked. Why had he thought that? That was mental. But a lot of his thoughts had been, recently. Must be a side effect of whatever potion Hermione had him on. He tried to clear his head, but it was like being underwater. It wasn't too bad at the moment, and he hoped he would get over it when he felt better, or at least not keep going through periods of being worse.
He tried to sit up, but he jostled his arm, and the sharp pain made him cry out. A chair scraped as it was pushed away from the table, and Hermione crossed over to his side of the tent.
"Ron? Aren't you asleep yet?"
"Nuh-uh. Need to get up, and get used to moving."
Instead of the concern that he had half expected, his statement was greeted with an impatient huff and narrowed eyes. "No, you need to rest. You'll never be able to heal properly unless you do." She reached for the chain around her neck. "Here, it's your turn to wear it."
Ron pressed himself back into the mattress, putting as much distance between himself and the locket as possible. He hated the thing with an intensity that he'd never hated with before. He feared it too, but he was less ready to admit that out loud. He'd already said that the thing gave him the creeps, but they hadn't seemed very sympathetic. They didn't like it either, they said, but they didn't have a choice. Maybe he was making too much of it. He didn't think he would bring it up right now, since Hermione looked like she was in the mood to take his head off if he fought her on it. Besides, with his arm fucked up, this was the only thing he could do to carry his weight. So he bit back a grunt of disgust as Hermione lowered the chain over his head, the locket lying like a stone on his chest, dragging him deeper into the water. His vision blurred, and his eyes became heavy.
The last thing he saw was Hermione turning away from him, and walking towards Harry, leaving him alone.
Hands covering her mouth, Hermione gasped. She hadn't remembered this day until now, since in her memories, there was nothing to make it stand out. She had been near the end of her shift with the locket, and it had made her grumpy and on edge. His lack of sleep had worried her, but she hadn't realized that her worry had come out so harsh and uncaring. If that was how she appeared to him, it was no wonder he had seemed to withdraw from her. What made her even more sick was witnessing herself putting that accursed locket around his neck. She might not have known what it was like for him at the time, but she might as well have poisoned him. Not that she really knew what it was like for him even now; he had never wanted to talk about that time, and since she had realized that the locket had exerted some sort of influence over him, and she had already forgiven him, she didn't feel the need to make him relive it. Now, the moment had come to find out what had truly gone on in his head, and she was almost sure that she didn't want to know.
Cat piss. Cat piss and static. The two constants in his life. Even in his dreams, he couldn't get away from the reek and the sounds. Some nights, he woke up clawing at himself. He heard Harry sigh from across the tent as he tried to adjust the radio again. Ron ignored him. At least he was doing something that might get them some information. All Harry did was sit there and eye-fuck that damned Snitch. As much as he had always loved Quidditch, he never thought he could hate anything related to it as much as he did that Snitch. Hermione gave an echoing sigh, and his eyes flickered over to where she was reading. He wasn't too keen on books at the moment, either.
His stomach gave a loud growl, and he paused a moment to let the wave of dizziness that accompanied it pass. The radio let out a high pitched whine, and he slammed his hand on the side to make it stop. If he just wasn't so damned hungry all the time, he might be able to concentrate enough to get a decent station. They hadn't heard any news in days, and the last list of those missing or dead had been depressingly high. How many more had been added to it in the meantime? How many were people they knew? Or were related to...
Damn it, why wouldn't this piece of shit fucking work! With a sharp snap of his wrist he flicked it off, throwing himself back on his cot. He scrubbed his hands down his face, the stubble on his cheeks and chin making a scraping sound against his palms. Couldn't even get a radio to work right. How pathetic was that? His head tilted to the side, listlessly watching Harry and Hermione. The Chosen One, and the brightest witch of their age. Harry was going to defeat the greatest threat that the Wizarding world had ever known. Hermione was brilliant enough to solve all the puzzles to help him do it. Fuckin' perfect for each other, weren't they? Like goes to like. People in their class didn't scrape the bottom of the barrel. Tits who couldn't even get a radio to work, for example. What were they even doing with him? He couldn't contribute like they could. He might as well not even be here. For all they had been paying attention to him lately, he might as well not be.
Anxiously, Hermione hovered nearby. After experiencing most of Ron's life from this vantage point, she had gotten a good idea of how Ron's mind normally worked, and how it felt. Something had shifted, though. There was a darkness inside of him that had never been there before, cobbled together from his original fears and insecurities, and held together by some outside force that was twisted and evil. She had experienced something similar, but not nearly this vivid. This must be because of what they found out about Ron when he went in for Auror training. When the brains attacked him in fifth year, they did more than just leave scars on his arms. They had affected his mind, and his treatment had only healed the surface. It had left the door to his mind ill-fitting; it didn't catch when it was shut, and once magic had blasted its way in once, it was extremely easy for it to do so again. Harry had years of experience dealing with Voldemort in his head, so while the locket had affected him, it hadn't been unbearable. She didn't have the same protection, but she had something else. She had a lifetime of blocking out the world around her to focus on whatever she was reading. When she was intent on studying something, mental barriers unconsciously sprang up in her mind, making it harder for magic to have sway. It didn't completely keep it out, of course, and she was particularly vulnerable when her mind wasn't busy. But most of the time she had been reading and puzzling over possible clues in Beedle the Bard, and it had helped.
Ron had no such protection. In the early days, he had asked them to play chess with him, but both she and Harry had turned him down. Seeing what the locket was doing to him made her hate herself for that. Chess would have been a perfect mental diversion, and she had denied him that small bit of peace. It also would have made him less isolated, and made him feel wanted and included.
Melancholy replaced the tight anger in his chest. He had seen them, even if they thought he hadn't. Talking. Whispering. Looking at him, then quickly away if they saw him looking back. Probably talking about how much better it would've been if he hadn't come at all. And who could blame him? He couldn't offer anything more than they could do themselves, and do better. Why had he even come? His family could use him more. At least they wouldn't be running the risk of the Ministry hauling them in if they found out he wasn't really sick at home. He was pretty certain that not everyone who was taken for 'questioning' made it back out again, and bloodtraitors were looked on as just as bad as muggles.
And Ginny was alone at school, now, without another family member with her for the very first time. Who knew what kind of fucked up shit was going on there? Hadn't he promised himself in second year, after she had been possessed, that he would look after her better? If something happened to her because he hadn't been there to stop it, he'd never forgive himself. His mum wouldn't, either. She had always wanted a daughter, and after what must have been the disappointment of a sixth son, she had finally gotten one. All his life, he had been told to watch out for Ginny. And what does he do? Runs off and leaves her to fend for herself, during a fucking war.
Hermione was having a hard time keeping up with his jumbled thoughts. Of course she and Harry had been whispering. When Ron was wearing the locket, he became aggressive and sarcastic, picking to death anything they said. It was always best to avoid talking to him, because they just ended up fighting. And it was hard not to look away from him, when he sat there glaring at you all the time. She had spent years wishing for Ron to look at her, and then had spent months trying to avoid it. But she did the same thing with him when Harry was wearing the locket, and she had seen them exchange looks more than once when it had been her turn. It was true that his complaints and comments had made her angry, but she had never thought he was useless, or wished that they were rid of him. Underneath it all, she had never stopped loving him. She had, however, doubted that he felt anything close to the same.
Oh, that locket had been sly. She saw clearly what Ron, at this time, couldn't; it was using his family against him. Slowly, subtly, it was using Ron's greatest strength and twisting it. Ron was loyal to a fault. He was loyal to his friends, and to his family. The locket played on this by dividing those loyalties, and made it seem like it had to be a choice between the two. It used his guilt at leaving them to magnify things, and even warped his insecurities to suit its needs. Molly might have always wanted a daughter, but it didn't mean she loved her sons any less. It just meant she wanted both. How did it even make sense that she would love her first five sons, and then look on her sixth as a mistake for not being a daughter? And from her conversations with the family, each child had been told to look after the next youngest. She couldn't be everywhere at once, and it helped to have extra pairs of eyes to keep accidents from happening.
Ron always would have felt bad for leaving his family behind; he had done so even before the locket. But his love and concern for them were the two things that could get him to leave his friends. The locket must have taken every opportunity to feed these feelings, which was probably why he had fiddled with the radio obsessively. It was splitting him down the middle, and poisoning what little self-confidence he had to make him think it didn't matter if he left.
Maybe if he tried again, he'd have better luck. It wasn't like he was needed for anything else. He sat back up, and reached for the radio, looking at Harry and Hermione out of the corner of his eye. There they were, whispering again. Looking awful cozy, as a matter of fact. Cozy enough that Harry might've decided that it wasn't worth it to wait for Ginny, when he had a brilliant witch right here...and Hermione. Well, whatever had been building between them had clearly been one-sided, because nearly any sign of affection towards him had dried up. A small, stray thought asked the question of whether or not he might have been helping that along, but it was quickly drowned out.
All he could hear was the static.
The days that he wasn't wearing the locket were better. Or they would be, if he didn't have to deal with whoever was. Just when his nearly constant headache seemed to fade, one or the other one got their knickers in a twist, and would decide that whatever was bothering them was best taken out on him. Ron shuffled around in the closet-like bathroom, jamming his hip on the sink as he stepped out of the shower, but ignored the pain. He was feeling better than he had in awhile, not that that was saying much. They had managed to scrape up some food, and had eaten well (comparatively) last night, and had even been able to have a decent breakfast. Ron had put off brushing his teeth, just so the taste of food would linger in his mouth. He rubbed at his chest with the towel, absently trying to warm the cold spot that seemed to cling to him even when he wasn't wearing the locket anymore.
Tugging on his trousers, he wondered what he should do when he joined the others. It was still Hermione's turn with the locket, so he supposed he would join Harry, wherever he went. Unless he was in one of his silent moods again. Ron felt like he was drowning and struggling for air, and wondered if maybe he would feel better if he spent some time alone today. He wished...well, he wished they weren't in this fucking mess, but since they were, he wished the others didn't make him feel as useless as a third tit being there. Hermione had nearly snapped his head off when he had reached for the plate of bread earlier, her voice dripping in disdain as she told him that he would have to forego his usual fourth servings, since they weren't at Hogwarts or the Burrow. She had been so downright nasty about it that he hadn't bothered to mention that he had been going to pass the plate to her.
He pulled his jumper over his head and hung up his towel, running his fingers through damp hair. If he was gone much longer, it would start to look like Bill's. It was quiet in the main part of the tent, with Harry and Hermione still sitting at the table. He raised his eyebrows at Harry as he came in, and Harry gave a slight shrug in return. Damn. He was hoping to find out which direction Hermione's mood was going, so he knew if it was safe to open his mouth. He went over to sit on the edge of his cot, thrusting his large, bony feet into a pair of wooly socks with holes at the heels and toes, and then into his shoes, which were wearing thin at the soles. Through his fringe, he observed Hermione, who was tapping her fingers on her book, her mouth set in a thin, tight line. A quick look at her chest confirmed that she was wearing the locket. Why did they have to wear it? There was something wrong about that, he had tried to tell them, but they hadn't wanted to listen. And alright, so he wasn't the Chosen One, and if he had tried to make a Polyjuice Potion when he was twelve, he probably would have turned himself into an inside-out, giant pink worm. But he knew things about the Wizarding world that the other two hadn't learned about in school or books, and he had his gut; both were telling him that they should lock the bloody thing up until they knew what to do with it. But he'd keep quiet. He wouldn't give his opinion where it wasn't wanted.
"Um, Hermione? I think it's my turn with the locket, now. You might as well give it to me, and have the next turn at the shower," Harry said with a pleasantness that was a touch too forced to be real.
"Fine, if you'll clear away the dishes. I did them last night."
Harry began to do so at once, using his wand to send them to the sink. "Sure, Hermione."
Ron kicked himself; why hadn't he thought to do that? As Hermione lifted the chain over her head and passed it to Harry, he shuddered, and blurted out, "Blimey, I'm glad it's not my turn yet. I hate wearing that thing."
Hermione glared at him, her upper lip curled back. "No one wants to wear it, Ron. It's a Horcrux, in case you've forgotten. I'd be more worried if you did want to wear it," she sneered at him.
Sweet Merlin, had she really been that...that bitchy? She knew how ugly the locket made them act, but if Ron's memories and her own experiences were anything to go by, it also dulled your perceptions of your own actions, and made you feel like the other two were acting much worse. If asked, Harry had probably felt the same way. Poor Ron! One of the rare moments he had been able to surface from the mental torment, and she was there to push him back down. She didn't care that it was because of the locket. It was still hurtful, and he hadn't deserved that. He had been making perfectly normal conversation, and she had rewarded him with stinging belittlement.
Blood welled up from where his teeth sank into his cheek, doing his best to mask the pain he felt at her harsh words. Why was everything he said and did wrong to her? He couldn't...he couldn't deal with this right now.
"RIght. I'll just...go see if I can find some mushrooms, or something. Take the first watch, too. Alright? Right." He said tightly, snatching up his coat and almost running out of the tent, not bothering to wait for an answer, or to even look at them.
The ground was still wet from the rain last night, and he nearly slipped on the leaves several times as he stalked away from the camp, his eyes burning with repressed tears. He took in great, gasping lungfuls of air, trying to calm himself down. He wanted to throw something; wanted to scream. Why was it always him that was the stupid one? Why were his fuck-ups and awkward comments the ones that got pointed out? It wasn't like he wasn't frustrated too. All of this wandering around in circles wasn't doing them a damn bit of good. They weren't making any progress at all, and the only thing they were likely to accomplish out here was to give the local wildlife a meal when they finally dropped dead from malnourishment.
They were cut off from supplies, support, and information. They had no direction, and Harry wasn't even willing to look beyond the little that Dumbledore had sent them with. Which basically boiled down to being able to toss around a Snitch and read a book by a nifty looking light. If this was all they were going to do, then they could do it back home, where they could at least help others. It might be more dangerous, but there was a better chance of figuring things out, if they could talk to people like Lupin. But no one was going to listen to anything he had to say, were they? He couldn't even make a comment about the locket without getting his bollocks ripped off and handed to him for it.
He stopped and leaned against a tree, not wanting to accidentally leave the wards. He was just so tired; he wasn't eating enough, wasn't sleeping enough...he felt miserable and on edge all of the time, as if everything good in his life had either been a lie, or was slipping through his fingers. Back at Grimmauld Place, he had thought that as long as he and Hermione could count on each other for support while Harry was dealing with the weight of what he had to do, then he would be alright. But he didn't even have that anymore, and he was beginning to think he was imagining ever having it in the first place. He had thought...he had thought things were going right for them. Now, he could barely remember what her hand felt like, or how she had looked when she smiled at him.
What had he done to make her change? All the warmth had gone out of her, and he always felt like she was looking at him the same way she would an unwelcome houseguest. Had she finally been around Harry and him long enough to compare them, and realize that Harry wa the better deal? He had tried, he had tried so hard, honest he had, to measure up. It just...how could you measure up to a hero, when it was obvious you were never more than sidekick material, at most? Hermione was a bright, ambitious witch. She deserved someone who was going places, like she was. He probably should've seen it coming all along, but it was only in the past couple of months that it became clear to him. She and Harry never really fought. Harry was smarter. More athletic. Braver. Better looking, better dressed, and richer. Ron gave a slightly hysterical laugh; if he was into blokes, he might make a play for Harry himself.
The laughter died away in the wind, and he frowned sadly. He missed the way things had been before. He missed talking to her and touching her. He missed feeling like he was wanted, like there was actually a chance that they could be more. He missed it so much that his bones ached...he missed it, even if it had only been a lie he told himself.
He looked so incredibly lost, standing there in the cold; a far cry from the angry, cruel man he had appeared to be when the locket had him. Out here alone, he was just a seventeen year old boy who was hurting, and thinking that the people he loved didn't care about him at all. The locket had twisted him up so much that he didn't even need to be wearing it; it had already used his insecurities to poison him against himself, and he was in too deep to break out of the cycle on his own. Ron had always had a hard time seeing the good in himself, or believing that anyone else could. Now, each little thing was magnified and distorted so far out of proportion, that it had little in common with reality. She freely admitted, and deeply regretted, that her own words and actions, both with and without the locket, had contributed to that.
But there were some things that had been purely Ron, and the possibility of there being something between her and Harry was one of them. In the tent, she had never acted any differently with Harry than she ever had; actually, because of the locket's effect on them, she was more distant than anything. During a time where Ron was feeling guilty over leaving his family behind, worrying over them and the bleak future that the Wizarding world was facing, she had been one of the few bright spots he had. The comfort of their friendship, and the exciting possibility of more, and given him a respite from all the darkness going on around them, and then that was taken away. She hadn't done it on purpose, and some things hadn't been her at all, but the locket's lies. He wasn't wearing the locket now, though, and even though she was currently being influenced by it herself, it was still her words which had hurt him. Tenderly she touched his cheek, and looked up into half-open eyes which stared through her unseeingly.
"None of that was ever true, Ron. None of it! You have so many wonderful qualities, and we never thought you were second best to anyone. You...you've always been more important than you know, no matter what you think of yourself. I wish you could see it, and...if anything that I have ever done, or said, whether it was through ignorance, the heat of anger, or whatever... If I contributed to this in any way, I want you to know that I am so, so sorry. I love you, Ron. I've always been rotten at finding the right ways to show it, but I swear I've been trying to learn. And I'll keep trying, because I never want to see you like this again."
"Ron?"
His head shot up at the sound of Hermione's voice, and he blinked rapidly to make sure she wouldn't see his tears. Why was she out here? She had never gone so far as to follow him to keep berating him before.
"What?" He asked shortly, keeping his eyes fixed over her shoulder.
She fidgeted with the loose loop of thread that was poking out of the back of one of her mittens, looking embarrassed. "I'm sorry for snapping back in the tent. I know I've been beastly all morning, and...I don't even know why. But it was hypocritical of me after getting mad at you for doing the same thing night, so I apologize."
At least she had apologized this time, Hermione thought. She was glad to see that she hadn't been completely horrible the entire time. It still didn't make up for the countless times she had more than likely failed to do so, though.
"S'alright." Ron said, his eyes flicking to hers, then away again.
Hermione's shoulders slumped, as she took a few steps closer. "No, it really isn't. There's enough wrong without us fighting amongst ourselves. You hadn't even done anything to justify me being upset, let alone reacting that way. Can we please start the day over?"
Finally, he looked at her. She really did look like she was sorry, and to be honest, he didn't have the heart for one of their fights. And if she had bothered to come all of the way out here to apologize, instead of staying with Harry, he didn't want to run her off.
"If we're starting the day over, does that mean we get another breakfast?" He asked with a faint smile.
Looking relieved, she joined him to lean against the tree, and he felt a bit of warmth spread where their arms rubbed together. Some of the pain eased around his heart, and he found he could breath easier.
"Ron, if we ever get out of this, I promise to make you three breakfasts."
He knew his ears were burning at what her remark had implied, even though he knew she didn't mean it like that. Still, things were looking better than they had earlier, and he was determined to make it last as long as possible.
"Is he playing with the Snitch, or looking at the map again?" He couldn't help but asking.
A puff of air became visible with her sigh. "The Snitch. You know how he is when he gets fixated. I wish he'd leave it alone, and concentrate on something else."
Ron jammed his hands deeper into his pockets. Yeah, he knew how Harry got, alright. And he had never minded much before, but this was the limit. "I still think we should talk to him about making some sort of plan. I don't know what!" He said to forestall her expected question, "I just know we need to be doing something more than this. Aside from getting the locket, have we actually done any good?"
"I know, and I feel the same way, I really do, but...but what else is there to do? They're looking for us, and it doesn't make sense to walk into a trap for no good reason."
He knew that. He had been over it a million times in his head, when he could think straight. That didn't mean he had to like it, or accept that they couldn't figure something out. But arguing with Hermione wasn't going to solve anything, and he really just wanted to have one day of not feeling like utter shite. So he merely grunted, and the two of them lapsed into silence.
"Merlin, it's freezing out here!" Hermione said after some time had passed. "Do you think we should go back in? Harry is probably wondering where we are."
Ron very much doubted it, and couldn't help feeling glum over the fact that she was already wanting to leave him. "Let's stay out a little longer. Harry knows we'll stay close, and he probably won't even notice how long we're gone. Here. let me do a Warming Charm."
His hand was stiff when he went to pull out his wand, but he was pleased when he was able to cast the charm with no trouble, and both of their teeth stopped chattering almost immediately.
"Oh, that's much better! Well, if you really think he won't mind..."
"He won't!" Ron said eagerly, knowing that another chance like this might not come along anytime soon.
"Alright. For a little bit more."
A little bit more. He was always greedy for a little bit more. A little more time, a few more words. He was having to string these little bits together, but they were coming fewer and farther between. He tried to use these moments to anchor himself, to keep from getting swept away by all the mental things in his head. He didn't know how much longer he could hold on, though. He was slipping, and he wasn't sure he could hang on by himself anymore. Maybe...if she could just...
"Hermione?" He asked hesitantly, not really sure what he was going to say, only knowing he needed to reach out somehow.
"Hm?" She replied, and he noticed that her eyes had strayed over to the tent.
"Nothing. Nothing important," He said in a hollow voice.
A little bit more of himself crumbled away.
Hermione tried to understand how his mind had made such a leap, but was finding it difficult. She hadn't been longing for Harry, or anything ridiculous of that nature. She was concerned for him, because they really were stuck until he decided on a different course of action. Since he didn't seem inclined to think along those lines, it didn't bode well for them. She had also been wondering if she shouldn't be looking for clues in the book, even though she had read it over and over again until her eyes had crossed. That he had reached such a low point for something so trivial to be misread in that way was alarming. Things like that must have happened on a daily basis, and she was surprised he hadn't lashed out more often. If the situation had been reversed, she wasn't sure she could have maintained the same control. Apparently, Ron had nearly reached the end of his, and when he finally did, she knew the results had been devastating for all of them.
The static was back, louder than before. It roared in his ears, and echoed through his fractured thoughts. The world came together and fell apart in bits and pieces, like looking through one of his brothers' kaleidoscopes. A beast roared in the distance, and he swung his head around, only to realize that it had just been his stomach. He couldn't remember the last decent meal they had had. Or even the last less than decent meal, for that matter. He was getting desperate. He had long forgotten what it felt like to be full. The gnawing sensation never left his gut, and he was pretty sure he had thrown up blood this morning. A squirrel hopped by a short distance away, looking plump and well fed. Humans could eat acorns, right? He was desperate enough to hunt down the squirrel and steal its stash. Hell, he was desperate enough to hunt down the squirrel itself.
He looked utterly awful. She had done the best she could to keep them all fed, but she had never come close to having enough to work with. Ron, who was taller and used to consuming much more than the other two, had been hit the hardest. Not only did he suffer from the lack of physical nourishment, but psychological, as well. She hadn't quite understood at the time, but food meant more to Ron than just fuel for the body. Molly had most often used food to express her love, and Ron had come to associate it with comfort and affection. Lack of food translated to a lack of the things he associated with it, and while food usually lifted his mood, being cut off from it had an equal and opposite effect.
He had always been tall and rather gangly, but starvation had given him a sharper frame, cutting away any illusion of softness. The dark hollows under his eyes made him look even more dangerous, and the corner of his lip, which she used to delight in seeing lifted in a grin, was almost permanently pulled back in a snarl. These things she was only able to notice peripherally, since her own head was throbbing along with his, to the point she wanted to scream to make it go away. How had he stood it? It was like a thousand people whispering all at once, and you were only able to decipher bits and pieces, none of them pleasant.
He crouched beside Harry and Hermione, straining to make sense of what he heard through the Extendable Ear. At first, he wasn't able to grasp much, but the mention of his sister came through, cutting the static like the sword she was said to have stolen. He thought he was going to be sick. Ginny was back at Hogwarts at the hands of that greasy fucker, while he was out here in the woods with both thumbs up his arse. He wish he could be there to choke Snape for sending his sister into the Forbidden Forest. What had she faced in there? Was she alright? All he could think about was her first year, and how she had nearly died in the Chamber. He had sworn that he would never let anything like that happen again. He had sworn. He remembered the summer after that, and standing outside her room and listening to her cry. The nights her nightmares were so bad, that she had snuck up to his room, like when she was little. What new nightmares was she having now? And who was there to help her through it?
And what the hell did they mean, when they said the Weasley's didn't need another thing to happen to one of their kids? Had something even worse happened that he hadn't heard about? Not knowing was killing him. He staggered back to the tent after Harry and Hermione, collapsing into his bunk as the two of them nattered away, disgustingly pleased with themselves. Did they not just hear the same things he had? His family might be getting picked off one by one, and they hadn't even the decency to look worried. When Harry blew off the part about Ginny being sent into the Forest, Ron wanted to fly across the room and punch him.
Now they were getting all excited about having to chase down the sword. What was there to be so happy about? They didn't know where it was, so it was just as lost as the other Horcruxes. How could they possibly think that they were any better off now? Oh, finally asking him, were they? A bit late for that. They hadn't bothered to ask him until they had talked it over themselves. And now that they had asked, they weren't much liking what they were hearing. Too fucking bad; he hadn't liked what he had heard since they had set out on this little trip through the woods, so he didn't much care if they were bothered by the truth. And where the hell did Harry get off saying all that about him? He had known they weren't going on any picnic. He hadn't expected to enjoy himself. He had just thought that they would actually be doing something that mattered!
So Harry wanted him to leave, is that it? Maybe he would, just to show him. It would serve him right, and show Harry that he was serious. He needed to learn that he couldn't insult him like that, or take for granted everything the Weasley family had done for him. Another push too far, and Ron was pulling his wand before he even knew it, not realizing till Hermione cast a Protego that Harry had done the same. That filthy little...Fine! He would leave; he would leave, and see how far he got before Harry came crawling after him. Who else would he have to blame when things went wrong? It sure wouldn't be Hermione.
Hermione.
He snatched up his rucksack, and turned to her. She was saying something, but he couldn't hear what. This was it; right here, right now, he would find out the answer to the question that had been eating at him. If she had ever felt anything for him, if this past summer had meant anything to her at all, she would come with him. She had to see that it was down to either coming back to help him, or squatting with Harry in this moldy tent.
She chose Harry.
Rage and despair clashed together like waves within him, crushing his bones and robbing him of air. Rage, because no one took his pain and worries into consideration. Despair, because his best friend, a friend he had stood by for years, had finally shown him what that had been worth. And his other friend, the girl he had loved for years, she had...well, neither of them gave a damn about him, he knew that for a fact now. He turned on his heel and stomped out. Well, they might not want him, but they could use him; they would see. Hermione was screaming something behind him, but it barely registered over the rain. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he Apparated, hoping to get somewhere quiet to think.
Hermione wrapped her arms around middle as she listened to herself scream, the memory of that night making her sob with a pain she thought she had put behind her. How could he think it had ever been a choice? It had never been about Harry, not really. Yes, Harry was her friend, and she had promised, and that mattered. But she had been thinking about the larger picture as well. The future of not just the Wizarding world was at stake; Hermione had known that Voldemort would utterly wipe out all Muggles once he was in control. She and people like her would be hunted to the death, as would anyone associated with them. They would be living in a hell on earth, and then they would be slaughtered. There was only so long you could run, so many places to hide. She was fighting for the Cattermoles of the world, for the Deans, for the people who would never even know why they were being killed. And, perhaps selfishly, she was fighting for them. For her and Ron. She wanted a future where they could be together without threat of death hanging over them, where their love could grow and strengthen, and where their children could be raised in peace. She had to stay, because it was the right way. The only way. And he had crushed her when he had walked out, because to her, that was saying that those reasons weren't important enough for him to stay, as well.
He landed hard, in another forest, this one closer to home, where they had camped once before. It wasn't raining here, and the silence helped his head. There. Now all he had to do was wait, and give them enough time to realize what they had done. He would've stayed closer, but they would have been able to see him through the-he spun around wildly, his pack slipping down his arm to land on the ground. The Wards! He had forgotten he wouldn't be able to see the camp once he was outside them! What had he done? The weight of his hot-tempered decision hit him, and he dropped to his knees, gasping for air. How could he have walked out on them? He had promised Harry that he would always be there for him. Why hadn't that seemed as important back in the tent as it did now? He knew he hadn't always gotten things right in the past, and he didn't have much to offer. But he had always been able to hold onto the fact that Harry could count on him, no matter what. He had just thrown away seven years of the best friendship anyone could hope to have, just because he had been trying to prove a point to heal his damned pride.
Hermione's voice somehow caught up to him, and he moaned. She had called for him! She had chased after him, shouting his name! Why would she do that, if she didn't care at all? How had he ever thought she hadn't? And why, of all things, had he asked her to choose? Hermione wouldn't leave when she knew the right thing to do was stay. She would hate him, now. If she had felt something for him beyond friendship, he had just killed it completely. Hermione loathed traitors, and that was what he was now. He had betrayed them, and he no longer deserved their forgiveness or friendship. Now they truly were better off without him.
But what if he could get back? Maybe it wasn't too late! He hadn't been gone long, and surely the camp wouldn't be too hard to find again. He struggled to his feet and Apparated to where he thought their camp had been. He turned in circles, looking for something familiar. Nothing. But maybe this had been an earlier camp? He shouted, but no one answered. He Apparated again, and repeated the process. Then again. And again. Three more times, and he knew he had failed. If he tried anymore, he would probably Splinch himself right down the middle. Not that he gave a damn, anymore.
Hermione was dizzy with his exhaustion, and fearful about what would happen if he didn't stop soon. Had he hurt himself more than he had told them? She always knew that he had regretted his actions as soon as he had left, and she had believed him when he told her that he had tried to get back. But knowing was entirely different from experiencing the near madness that drove him, and the guilt and dark recriminations that he hurled at himself.
"Oh, my poor Ron," she whispered when he had finally allowed himself to stop, leaning her head between his shoulders, and hugging him tightly.
He dropped to the ground once more, and pressed his cheek to the cold earth, his only source of heat the burning tears streaming down his face. Behind him, he heard footsteps, and the whisper of rough voices. Something told him that they meant him no good. The thought did nothing to move him, for he no longer cared. What was the point?
He was already dead inside, anyway.